


Polaroid

by yugidementia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Weecest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 02:05:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3673461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yugidementia/pseuds/yugidementia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angels try to find out how Sam Winchester could defeat Lucifer by watching his memories. The answer isn't what they expect. (Warnings: underage, incest) WIP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When the prophesied antichrist took the leap that ended the apocalypse, the angels asked the question over and over. How? How could a ‘mud monkey’ defeat the devil himself when they had no such luck? After years of speculation, they had to find out the true reason. At the very least, know when he bypassed Lucifer’s influence. The answer seemed to be between Sam and God; Sam would never give it up and God was nowhere to be found. God probably didn’t know; Sam, Cas, and Dean broke destiny; changed the plans. There was only one way-- to watch his memories. They’d start at the beginning and let them lead the way.

Memories are an intricate thing. In previous situations that called for a similar approach, a few patterns had emerged. There are different types of memories; reconstructed from stories the person had heard, conversational only, and original are the most common. Usually original memories are from the perspective of person with their attached thoughts and ideas. Conversational are a deep blackness with only spoken conversation; there were no obvious indicators of who was speaking. Occasionally, all memories are prone to skip around, chunks missing. Pieces could be missing for many reasons; not interesting, too long ago, or too painful. Memories are almost always in chronological order, but they can follow any pattern with loose connections. One memory can trigger a similar memory next in order and so on.

* * *

  
Sam’s first memory is jumbled at best; formed through Dean’s depictions. Bits and pieces were revealed to him over the span of his childhood. Dean would only tell Sam in his own time. Sam could squeeze something out him when Dean was fixing the Impala, when he was trying to get Sam to sleep, and sometimes when Dean was drunk. The memory is bleary at the edges, discolored to represent its age. He’s only three months old being cradled in Dean’s freckled arms for the first time.

Dean looks nervous as he avoids moving under the scrutiny of their parents. They carefully questioned him if he wanted to do this. It’s a leap of faith to let a four year old hold a baby, but he’s pretty sure he can handle it. He directs his gaze to the texture of the wall, the manilla carpet, the dirty windows; anything to avoid their concerned onlooking. His arm shifts and Sam lets out a shrill cry of surprise. Oh no he just hurt his brother didn’t he? His parents gave him a chance and he ruined it and now Sammy was hurt or could die--Dean freezes when a hand guides his behind his brother’s neck.

“Support his head, Dean,” John’s gentle voice instructs, stepping back and giving a reassuring nod.  
He does as he’s told and focuses on Sam, still very okay and alive. Sam has wispy hair that he wants to touch, but his parents forbade it the last time he tried with an air of concern he didn’t understand. His eyes look too big for his head, like one of stuffed animals they put in his crib. He’s in a onesie painted in blue and red with tiny decorative buttons. Maybe his brother is a stuffed animal. Thankfully, his mouth isn’t made of stitches and colored string, Dean muses. Unlike toys, his brother consistently leaks from somewhere, but not at the moment.

There are little red patches where Sam scratched himself before Mary could clip his nails. The most concentrated spots are on his legs and arms. Dean pets each spot to soothe Sam, but he’s a ticklish baby. Sam giggles and Dean smiles at his accomplishment. He lightly runs his fingers over the pads of Sam’s feet; he jostles and his squeals of happiness release a river of drool onto his clothes and Dean’s. Mary and John eye him, waiting for a complaint about the slobber on his favorite shirt; it never comes. He’s too occupied with this overwhelming joy; he’s never seen anyone so content with simple gestures.

“Watch out, he might grab your nose!” Mary chuckles as Sam flails his fat arms.

Dean returns his focus on his brother. They make eye contact--he’s pretty sure that Sam is connecting with him. Can babies do that? His hand dangles in front of Sam’s face to avoid the spit, ready to move back for support. Innocent coos dampen the air when a small hand moves from its resting position. He can see the tips of his fingers reflect in Sam’s eyes. Clumsy fingers tug at Dean’s smooth palm and eventually wrap around a finger. Thumbtack sized nails dig into his index finger but Dean pretends it didn’t hurt; he might startle Sam. He holds his brother just like that for as long as his parents are comfortable; Sam’s fast asleep, fingers still gripping Dean’s, when they carry him off to his crib. Dean admires the tiny indents in his finger that remain for hours.  
  
Dean climbs into the crib the next night and anytime he can get away with it; it’s the same routine each time. As a precaution, he waits until his parents had gone to bed or are watching late night talk shows. Dean slides the safety wall of the crib down and slides in before returning it to it’s regular position. The blanket is small so he covers Sam entirely and sticks his feet underneath, a discarded toy is his pillow. He carefully curls himself around Sam and snuggling up before falling asleep; each night, Sam grips his finger. John and Mary discourage it at first, out of the fear that he is regressing. They finally give up the second week that they’d taken him to his bed in the middle of the night, just to find him back again in the morning. It is advantageous for them; Sam sleeps better than he’d ever has, hardly stirring until morning.

* * *

  
“I don’t what you want to know, Sam. Your mother was killed and we were helpless. I watched our house burn down along with our neighbors,” John lamented to a young Sam Winchester craving answers for himself and others.

“The crowd that gathered kept staring at you. There were fire trucks and an ambulance going off and people shouting and you didn’t make a sound,” Dean whispered into Sam’s hair during a restless night.

“I swear Mom was on the ceiling or something. It was pretty freaky,” he said to shut Sam up so he’d hand him a wrench.

“Don’t blame me for her death! How in the hell was I supposed to save her? She was pinned to the ceiling and on fire. I almost didn’t make it out that night. You two were almost orphans. Even if I had saved your mother it wouldn’t have guaranteed anything. Dean chose for himself and you damn well know it. Just go to bed before you piss me off,” John shouted when Sam picked a fight after Dean dropped out of high school.

“The night of the fire, I was on my way to your crib. I could hear you crying. I was in the hallway when Dad handed you to me and rushed me out,” Dean revealed after a night at the bars and many pleading looks.

To date, it is the most Dean or Dad ever told him about November 2nd, 1983.

* * *

  
Sam is old enough to know that Dad’s gone more often than he’s there, missing concerts, teacher meetings, and career day. Thankfully none of the teachers try to do home visits; it’d be difficult to facilitate one considering they don’t have a mailbox. Dad can’t afford to rent a house and they only stay in towns a few months at a time. They live in motels with two beds and a couch; fake addresses are provided to satiate the schools.

Dean only walks Sam home after school at first, shields him from the disdainful looks from his peers as they scoot into a suburban car with their parents. Not long after he packs lunches because Sam hates the over salted school food and it’s cheaper anyways. Finally, Dean picks up where his father lacks at eleven years old. Uneasy glances greet him and Sam to each parent oriented event, but he seems to take it in stride. Despite Sam’s apologies, Dean insists that he wants to, says it isn’t a chore to give him the attention he deserves. He sits in front proudly during the concerts and mouths the words to the songs, he remembers singing them at that age. He talks to the teachers about Sam’s grades during conferences, despite their reluctance. He speaks in front of the class and tells them how their Dad is a mechanic on the side but his real job is saving people, to the awe of teachers and kids alike. He eats up each compliment about his brother-- he’s the one that has raised this brilliant little kid.

Sam still doesn’t know why. Why John goes without an explanation, why he says ‘protect Sam,’ or why Dean usually nods when Dad’s walking out the door; an agreement hanging between them. This exchange between his brother and father is new to him; it began when Sam started school. They were both upset, most notably Sam, about the absence of Uncle Bobby, but their father had been stern. Dean is the new Bobby which entails many things: cooking, helping with homework, enforcing bedtimes, reading to Sam, bandaging his wounds, and helping him through his fears. Sam doesn’t fully grasp what Dean gives up for him, but he feels it. It resonates in him when he watches older kids play soccer and have sleep overs and go to the movies--things Dean never does. He shows his gratitude by trying to be as like Dean as possible, to become a hero himself.

Sam wonders if other kids get this much unsupervised time; staying up late and eating junk food isn’t a privilege anymore. Last New Years was hardly an effort for him, they stayed up and watched Ghostbusters. Dean kept biting his tongue, making critical faces at the screen as if they were doing everything wrong; the same way he had watched Sam play arcade games. Sam laughed at all his dumb faces and Dean threw popcorn at him. Sam jumped on him and they wrestled on the floor, smashing the popcorn down into the dirty brown carpet. Sam lost in an unsurprising turn of fate, and was made to clean up the mess of kernels.

He smiles at the memory as insomnia takes it’s hold. He can no longer sleep peacefully without his Dad there. He’s so anxious that he’s going to leave them, find a better family. He’s afraid that Dad will take Dean while he’s asleep and leave him alone. He didn’t harbor these fears when they stayed with Uncle Bobby, but Sam knows he would never abandon them. He knows it’s irrational, but it burns in the foreground of his mind. Anything could happen--they do live an inconstant life.

His insomnia started out as an attempt to wait up for Dad, but evolved into a terrible plague. He pretends to sleep until Dean is out cold and watches the door until the hazy sunlight flits through the cheap blinds. He gives into exhaustion and nearly gives Dean a heart attack, on the verge of calling for an ambulance. They stay home and Dean hovers and watches him sleep, warding off concerned phone calls from the school.

“Sammy, don’t do that to me ever again. What was I supposed to do? What if Dad came home and you were dead?” Dean’s voice shakes

“I was waiting for Dad,” he startles Dean. He hadn’t known Sam was awake.

“You should’ve told me. Next time, we’ll wait together.”  
  
That night and each after, Dean climbed into Sam’s bed and held his hand to ease him through his anxiety. The nights brought conversations full of laughs, tears, and everything between; but never where Dad was or what he was doing. This was one of those times Dean would tell him about that time he held him as a baby, talked until Sam drifted off cuddled against his big brother; soothed by the body heat exuding off Dean and his voice filled with joy. Sam couldn’t help but see an emerging parallel from that story and his life now. They fell into a pattern, taking comfort in each other’s presence, finding it harder to sleep alone.

Dad probably would’ve told Sam to grow out of it so they made it exclusively theirs. On the nights he was home, Dean would wait until he was rocked to sleep by Jack Daniels before joining Sam for the night. Luckily, he slept until late morning, after they’d dressed and left for school. He was usually so hungover they could’ve had a marching band in the living room without his notice. It was an interesting dance they did around him, even if they weren’t doing anything wrong; it felt like it should be a secret. Had they told Dad, he could have slept in Dean’s bed rather than the couch, but Sam figured it served him right. His resentment had always seared inside him and steadily grew as he watched Dean lose more of his childhood to be his makeshift mother.

* * *

  
“You can handle this Sam, I promise. Taking care of a ghost is an easy hunt. Dean’s got your back,” Dad assures Sam as Dean drags him out of the Impala. He hands Sam a loaded sawed-off shotgun. He carries a can of lighter fluid and tucks a lighter into his jeans pocket. They kick up dirt and gravel on the way to the rickety old house and Sam stays behind Dean.

“Come on, don’t be a baby. It’s just a ghost,” Dean’s taunt is less effective when his voice cracks in the middle.

Sam picks up the pace and walks next to Dean now, his hand absent mindedly grabs Dean’s. Neither of them notice until they’re at the previously-a-termite-meal door, Dean pulling away to try the knob. The rust prevents it from turning and Dean sighs.

“So are we breaking down a door or a window?” Dean gestures around them.

“I don’t know. Um, the door has more structural weakness,” Sam notices.

Dean sets the lighter fluid down, backs up, and slams his shoulder into the door before Sam can say much else. It cracks loudly and dust fills the space around them. Dean coughs and sputters, so Sam takes over, mimicking what Dean just did. The center of the door gives and Sam cries out in pain. He might have broken his shoulder, but they have a task on hand. Dean kicks in the bits of wood splaying out from the hole and crouches in, Sam on his heels.

“Ok Sammy, show me how you shoot that thing,” he looks pointedly at the shotgun.

Sam anxiously assumes the position he’s seen his father do what seems a million times. He tenderly squeezes the trigger to no avail; he pulls back harder begrudgingly. Smoke takes over the air before he hears a loud boom and shattering. As he brings the gun back to his side he realises he can’t feel his shoulder at all. He’s afraid to hear what Dean has to say about his shot or his shoulder injury.

“Could use some more practice. No one is gonna care about a broken window here though,” his face is paler than usual, but he doesn’t indicate any direct concern. He probably doesn’t want to scare Sam. “Alright we gotta find the body quick and burn it.”

The house was a good size with two floors, an attic, and a basement. The basement is the last resort--more than a few hunting-gone-wrong stories ended there. They begin a walk around for anything unusual, a term that was often appended in this lifestyle. The first several rooms contain only veiled furniture and dusty novels; nothing to keep someone bound here. The kitchen is made entirely of rust and mold; the bathroom shares a similar fate.

They split up; Sam in the attic, Dean in the basement--neither particularly excited. Sam makes it up the first flight of crooked stairs and passes the bedrooms with intent. The way to the attic is a pull down ladder that is helpfully already down. It’s stained but he tries not to look too close, he needs to get the job done. Five rungs from the top his foot slips and his heart pounds--he wasn’t really coordinated. Another step up and he feels it, a gust of musty air or something, and he’s falling backward. He hears the whooshing past his ears and pretends he’s not really falling, it’s a nightmare. He slams onto the wood floor a few feet from the top of the ladder and the air is launched out his lungs in a surprised cry. He sees the ghost, a woman in flower patterned clothes with a gaping head injury that makes him cringe.

“They said I was a manic woman that up and left her home!”

“I, uh, I’m sorry?” Sam wheezes while he tries to regain his footing.

Her face is directly in front of his now. She speaks softer this time, “Will you tell them what happened to me?”

“Who? What?”

“My husband pushed me off that ladder and then buried me.”

“Where did he bury you? In the yard?”

“No, he put me behind a wall. No one ever thought anything of my disappearance.”

“Sam, you ok?” Dean huffs wide-eyed.

“Yeah I just fell and-”

“Hey lady, you get away from him. I know how you ghosts are, bent on revenge or whatever, but you’re not taking it out on him.”

“No, Dean it’s o-” Sam’s explanation is cut off by a loud noise. Dean shoots the woman’s ghost with the rifle Sam is supposed to be manning; he dropped it unknowingly on his dive. She disappears, but it’s temporary. She appears again after Dean has helped Sam up, fierce anger slanders her face. She lunges at Dean and passes through him purposefully; he’s frozen in pain.

“He didn’t mean it! Just leave us alone, we’ll leave!” Sam cries out of desperation. She chooses to ignore him and try to get near Dean again; he’s still immobile.

“Come on Dean we gotta go!” He grabs Dean’s free hand (the other one is grasping the shotgun) and drags toward the stairs; he’s holding on for dear life and Dean is squeezing back. She isn’t letting up, forcing the lights to flicker now and opening a few windows. Sam’s afraid she has the energy to move objects to throw at them.

Half way down the stairs Sam pleads with Dean, “You have to stop Dean! I can’t carry you or anything!” He shakes his older brother until he’s back in action and they run in unison down the rest of the stairs. The basement door swings open and shut a few times in some horrible morse code. Sam’s pretty sure it translates to ‘Get out.’  
“I didn’t find a body, did you?” Dean prompts.  
“Uh, no but she’s buried behind a wall.”

“Where?” Dean’s voice is more frantic; the door is slamming louder than before.  
“I don’t know! You shot her before she could tell me!”

“Crap. Well I guess we’re burning the place down then,” he looks around for the lighter fluid and finds none. “Shit. I’m gonna have to run out and get the lighter fluid,” he says over the door slamming. He lets go of Sam’s hand and sprints for the front door; he crawls through the opening with care.

The woman uses this opportunity to prey on Sam’s obvious fear. She whispers in his ear what sounds like angry gibberish as he tries to huddle in a corner. An ancient grandfather clock tips over a few feet from him and he’s lost it. He’s in full panic mode now, she’s strong and going to kill him and Dean and Dad will go on like he never existed. Hot tears run down his cheeks as he hears more furniture crash around him; he can’t see it because he doesn’t want to, his eyes are covered.

“Stop please! I’m just trying to help! I don’t want to die!” he shrieks at the house collectively.

A palm is on his cheek now, soothing, “It’s ok, Sammy. I need your help or we can’t finish this. Please.” Sam wipes the tears from his eyes and stands facing Dean.

“Ok, I need you to run around and pour this all over the house,” he holds up the rectangular can; it boasts it’s contents containing thirty-three percent more than usual. “If I see her I’ll shoot, I’m not gonna let her touch you.”

Sam takes the flammable liquid reluctantly, but a hand lingers to rest on Dean’s. He nods and they break apart, Sam begins a mad dash around the entire first floor. Once he’s satisfied, he jogs up the stairs; he can feel a round rush past him and keeps going. He douses the ladder and comes back down, frantically avoiding the bullets flying around him. He forces his way to the top of the basement stairs between slams and dumps the rest down rather than risk a trip into the unknown.

Dean tosses him the gun while he lights the destructive trail; Sam fires three or four times and he feels the backlash rattle his shoulder. He’s sure he’ll be in pain when the adrenaline wears down. The room is suddenly very bright and turning toxic; they need to leave now. When Sam turns to go with Dean, he can see Dean’s legs slipping through the damaged door. He catches up, but the fire is gaining and the door is on fire on the edges. He throws the sawed-off through the opening and tries to throw himself out in a similar fashion. In his hesitation, the fire spreads further or the outer rim of the self-made exit. He pushes through and feels some heat before landing on the porch. Dean has the gun under his arm and takes Sam’s hand. Sam can’t walk or even run behind Dean because he’s going so fast, he’s just pulling Sam to the Impala like dead weight. They slide into the car and don’t say a word until they’re home; on the way over Sam looks himself over and sees the singes in Dean’s old shirt he’s wearing and on the fray of his jeans.  
  
Dean waits until Dad is asleep to break out the modified first aid kit. He takes a meticulous tally; Sam racks up a broken shoulder, some open graze wounds (caused by the fleeting bullets), a few second degree burns, and a mild concussion. Sam is sitting backwards on a rickety kitchen chair to brace for the pain, almost numb to his injuries but it could be the concussion. He tastes the stale vomit in his mouth from earlier, but it’s the least of his problems.

Dean motions for Sam to remove the t-shirt and rolls Sam’s jeans up for him. In absence of whiskey, Dean soaks a washcloth in hydrogen peroxide. He hands Sam a bag of frozen peas to hold on the burns accumulated on his torso. Sam hisses when it makes contact with the blisters but pushes through to avoid worse.

“Ok, I’m gonna disinfect your wounds. It’s gonna burn. You gotta hold still for me ok?”

Sam nods and then regrets it when ringing sets in his ears.

Sam clenches his jaw at the first sting and tries to tune out the sickly bubbling sound. Dean’s hardly running the rag over the cuts, skimming over the pale flesh of Sam’s back. It’s stained with black smears of old blood; the disinfectant is slowly erasing the blemishes. He makes several passes, Sam hunching more forward each time, before dappling on a & d cream. He secures a few big bandages and gauze with medical tape.

“Sam! Sam! Wake up!”

Sam stirs, a hot hand on his forehead.

“Christ Sammy, don’t scare me like that. You dizzy?” Dean squeezes Sam’s hand as an anchor to confirm he’s awake.

“Y-yeah,” Sam coughs around a dry heave. His free hand is hanging loose, bag of peas heaping on the floor, his blisters chafing the chair. His next cough pushes him against the chair; his entire face is scrunched, tears staining his paled cheeks.

Dean’s hand gives a final squeeze before he raids their kit frantically. He pulls out two large bottles that sound half full when he tips them. Sam closes his eyes and tries to focus on the sounds other than the buzzing in his head. He hears Dean’s bare feet squeak on the kitchen tile-- he must be sweating nervously-- and then the tap runs. Cupboards opening and closing, and a hollow plastic sound; the hollow plastic is filled with water which is in front of Sam’s face a few moments later.

Dean’s outstretched hand contains four blue capsules and two white tablets that he transfers to Sam’s palm. Sam quickly shoves them in his mouth and Dean tips the glass at a shallow angle to allow Sam to pace himself. Dean backs off when his brother huffs around the lip of the cup.

“Ok, now I just gotta cover your burns and then you can go to bed,” Dean assures while tucking away the pain killers. He reaches again for the cream and smears some on a couple fingers and has gauze ready in the other hand. “You gotta lean back.”

Sam pulls back, sticking his chest out for easy access, to the best of his ability. He hopes he can keep steady like that only holding on with one hand. He bites his tongue at the dull throb of fire on his chest as he’s doctored up. When the gauze is secured, he pools his weight forward.

“I’m gonna clean this up and then help you to bed, ok? You awake?”

“Yeah, m’kay.”

Each part of the safety kit is put back in it’s place, the frozen peas are returned to the sputtering freezer, and the cup is drying on a towel. He picks up the discarded shirt and offers it to Sam. He shakes his head 'no' and tries to push himself off the chair. He falters at the jerky pain in his slack shoulder and returns to his previous position. Dean holds out his hand as a demand rather than an offer, one Sam can't refuse unless he wants to wake up on a stiff chair. He tugs gently and use his other hand to help guide the other half of Sam's torso up. They make the short trip to their room with Dean leading him by hand and Sam collapses onto Dean's queen mattress. Dean climbs in and tilts Sam onto his good side and pulls the sheets over them.

"Night Sammy," Dean whispers and receives a grunt back.  
  
They took Sam to the doctor the next day with the tales of football practice on their lips to ensure his shoulder would be taken care of. It had been pretty hard to convince the teachers that no his Dad didn’t beat him, he’s just really clumsy. The wounds looked a lot more incriminating before Dean had tended to them, his eyes brimming with distress; they would have called child services had they seen the before.

John had hardly acknowledged the awful trip from then on, probably out of guilt. Sam was in charge of doing all the research until he was twelve; his first assignment was learning the proper way to break down a door.

* * *

  
Sam stirs when a flicker of sun lands on his eyes; his nose catches the scent of eggs and burnt toast. Recognition floods him-- each May 2nd starts this way. He lazily removes the covers and walks to the kitchen, greeted by breakfast. He feels awkward being boxer clad while his brother is dressed to kill.

“It’s almost noon, sleeping beauty,” Dean snarks as he breaks off a bit of toast.  
“Good thing I’m not going to school, huh?” Sam stirs his eggs with a bent fork. When he was younger he’d attend class on his birthdays without incident. It meant birthday crowns, songs, and attention in elementary school. After that no one gave a shit-- a few insincere ‘happy birthdays’ and homework were in store. “Dad home?” he bits into the soggy eggs so he won’t have to respond to the resounding ‘no.’

“Said he’d try to be here by the end of the week.” Dad seemed to make a habit of missing each of his birthdays and this was no exception. He was kind of jealous that Dad obviously had been there for Deans first four birthdays, not that he could remember them.

“Hey, Dean, why do you make me breakfast every year?”

“Well,” he started, setting a dirtied napkin on his plate, “it’s family tradition. I remember Mom did, at least for my fourth birthday. And if Dad was around after that, he would.”

“Whatever, go put some clothes on so you can be seen in public,” Dean shoos Sam as he clears the table and sets dishes in the rusty sink. Sam lingers a little longer to watch Dean when he thinks he’s alone, washing dishes. He notices how the sun accents the almond hair and high cheekbones and strong jaw. It isn’t the first time he takes the time to appreciate Dean’s beauty and it won’t be the last.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

They always were dropped off in some nearby forest, where the silence echoed and the light glimmered pale. When they wrestled, rotted leaves replaced the carpet and the sound of animals became stand-ins for passing cars. He was pretty sure they spent more time there than school; he was afraid to keep track. It was better than going to classes though because here he couldn’t be separated from Dean, he was encouraged to spend more time with him. He almost dreaded going to high school while his brother was off hunting or fixing up cars in a local car shop. Dean would come home smelling like oil or rust and rot but never talk about what he did all day or what they hunted, even when stains gave away some details. He liked it better when they came home from the woods and he could recognize everything; he could smell leaves and dirt and sweat and fear and knew Dean wasn’t hurt badly.

Sam started to see Dean, really see him, when he began training at twelve. By sixteen, his brother had fully grown- only a few inches off Dad’s height. His parsnip skin stretched over him to reveal toned muscles and sharp contours of his bones. It was hard not to look when they were supposed to practice hand to hand combat, viciously pressed up to each other with an allusion of danger. The adrenaline slowed the time so he could try to keep up with the punches and also made him acutely aware of each detail of Dean.

He saw over time how Dean’s involuntary reflexes dulled; his eyes stayed open when punches were thrown at him and scrutinized Sam's motives. They shined the same color as one of Sam’s favorite crayons to used, ‘magic mint.’ It was almost sad that he couldn’t retain the movements that made him human, made him vulnerable.

Another thing that seemed inhuman about Dean had been how fast he could run; sometimes Sam swore it was a gazelle or after having an encounter, a vamp. He could out run Sam, pin him to the ground, and have a knife to his throat in a matter of seconds. It took over a year to even closely match that talent; a year of rigorous physical training, a large amount on his own time trying to best his older brother or at least be just like him. His effort was rewarded with wrestling matches rather than him trying to wriggle out of Dean’s grip. That was when he began to have ‘issues,’ the kind that he was thankful jeans could hide.  
*

Sam slams the car door and pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it on the lush grass. They parked in an area secluded by alpine pine trees and silence only broken by uppity birds. He’s yanking off his shoes when Dean is beside him, mirroring his actions. They both were down to their boxers out in the afternoon sunlight. Sam strides to the water and an unspoken race breaks out to get to Crab Orchard Lake.

Sam now, unlike when he began training, had a height advantage. His longer legs allowed him to take half the steps Dean took. He was leading the contest when Dean bumped him, causing him to do a dive roll; he grabs Dean’s boney ankle and drags him down to equal the playing field.

“You bitch!”

“You started it, Jerk!” Sam laughed, panting obscuring his words.

Sam pushes himself up and flies past Dean while he inspects his grass stains. He’s twenty feet from the edge when Dean is in step with him, smiling like he isn’t moving at a ridiculous pace. Sam forces all the air out of his lungs to push himself faster and picks up the pace, but Dean’s right there. About half a foot from the edge, Sam grabs his brothers hand and dives in the lukewarm water, taking Dean with him.

Sam’s comes up for air violently wishing he hadn’t forced it all out before. He feels the hand clasping his still but it’s loose. He sweeps his vision for any sign of his brother but finds none. He can’t pull Dean up so he sinks down and brings him up, one arm cradling him and the other hold his hand. He squeezes hard, and hears something odd. He leans in to see if Dean’s breathing and starts to panic, reading to perform CPR. He hears the noise clearly now, it’s akin to gurgling and it’s too late to pull back now. He shuts his eyes as a stream of water splatters over his face. He opens his grasp and slacks his supporting arm, allowing Dean to submerge again.

“You asshole!” Sam shouts over the man made waves he hauls at Dean.

“Don’t tell me you were gonna cry,” Dean retorts while he does a backstroke to escape the assault.

Sam huffs and kicks to face him again. He whirls his body with his arms out, send a small titlewave over Dean. He rubs his eyes and ducks underwater, only his feet come back up and throttle the water against Sam’s chest. Dean’s torso is above water and Sam has purposefully disappeared, swimming near the bottom. He grabs Dean’s legs and forces him to the sandy underbelly by his wrists.

All Sam wants right now is to just kiss Dean like every girl on the block gets to. Just close the short distance and press his lips to Dean’s. The thought has gone through many times, probably a thousand times, since he hit puberty. He might even be able to get away with it, when they came back up, act like they brushed against each other or it was his hand. While Dean rarely shut his eyes in combat, he refused to open them underwater. He could actually really get away with it. But what kind of kiss would that be, one stolen and passed off as a bump.  
After a huge splash war, they get out with burning eyes and sore muscles. They sprawl out on the earthy carpet, side by side, soaking in sun. Dean drifts off first, arms stretched behind his head, followed by Sam.  
*

They cross the street, hands clasped causally, stomachs full, and smiles on their faces; similar to leaving dinners as kids, Dean holding his hand to cross the street. Only street lamps light the way with minor assistance from the broad moon. Dean just spent the last half hour telling stupid stories around his food, making Sam laugh and fall deeper in love with his brother, which is weird no matter how deep he feels it.

The thoughts have been kicking adrenaline through his head all day and he decides it’s better to know than to pretend nothing was going on. It was more extreme than most days and he’s pretty sure his hormones were calming down to the point that they could no longer be used as an excuse. They’re next to the Impala and Sam goes for it, just pulls Dean to him. A flash of panic defiles Dean’s eyes, it looks like he’s sure they’ve almost been hit by a car. Sam doesn’t allow him any time to react instinctively-- just presses his lips lightly to his brother’s. He hopes he isn’t shaking, though he’s sure he is. It’s a sensory overload making him shake-- stubble on Dean’s chin and cheeks, moisture Dean’s supple lips (he was always licking them). His hand starts to perspire; he hadn’t realized the death grip he put on Dean’s hand. He parts, ending the longest few seconds of his life.

They share a moment awash with fear and uncertainty, eyes flickering to the other. Sam goes to let his hand slack, but Dean grips him and makes eye contact that eases Sam’s nerves. Dean moves in closer and Sam tenses, ready for some kind of penance by his brother or maybe God to just strike him down right there. Sam watches Dean’s jaw unclench and then he’s being kissed tenderly, the way he’d always fantasized. Watching Dean kiss girls was nothing compared to this soft, gentle, loving caress of lips. Sam’s eyes stay open, watching a few passing cars, their passengers watching him. Sam tries to breathe calmly through his nose, unable to completely reciprocate the passion.

Dean ends it and looks to Sam for indications of anger or unrest. Sam is afraid Dean will feel guilty if he doesn’t speak up and affirm his consent.

“Dean I have waited for a while to do that. Please don’t feel like you forced me into this, you really didn’t because I started this and if you don’t want to deal with my fucked up thing then it’s really ok-” Sam’s babbles until Dean kisses him again, deeper, tracing his lips as a tease.

“Alright, don’t stress. You’re only sixteen, you don’t need to worry so much. Come on let’s get home,” he opened the door for Sam before hopping in on the driver’s side.  
*

The second day of Sam Winchester being sixteen, he wakes up lazily tangled in his brother’s limbs. He almost forgets who he is and where they are but it hits him like a poltergeist had thrown a heavy table at him. He’d spent many hours just kissing his brother through the night, wrapped up in his warmth and caresses. He’d tasted their dinner on Dean, mostly the two slices of cherry pie and ketchup he’d drowned his burger and fries in. He wanted more, to taste everything Dean had tasted, feel everything Dean felt; he wanted to get closer, curl up inside Dean and just stay there forever.

He was never so content with his father’s overwhelming absence; he never thought he ever would be, but Dean could change anything. He feels tears well in his eyes, budding out of the relief he felt over the anxiety that had accumulated over four years. His nose starts running and the tears travel quietly without his control. He shifts a bit and wakes Dean when their ankles brush.

“Mornin’ Sammy. How’d you sleep?” he palms his eyes and straightens up.

Sam tries to say something, anything, but tears and mucus talk the place of words. He tries to hide it by curling away from his brother. Dean is immediately trying to wrap around Sam’s bare shoulders. Sam feels the heat spread over his back and impulsively cuddled into it. He was still weeping into his hands.  
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he whispers and strokes the small of his brother’s back.

“I-I’m just so glad I don’t,” he keeps his voice as even as possible but he sobs again before finishing his explanation. “Don’t have to worry anymore about if you’d hate me or reject me.” He uses his wrist to wipe away tears, but snot still muddies his face. Dean shoves a handful of the blanket into Sam’s hand to take care of it.

“I was never gonna touch you I swear. But if you really are sure you want to commit to this, I need to be sure. Are you ready for this kind of relationship that we have to hide?” Sam nods his head ‘yes’ and makes a noise in his throat like he was ready to cry again.

“Shhh. Sam I’d never push you away. We’re all we have,” Dean’s voice creaks like his heart is a flight of stairs Sam just stomped all over.  
*

They stay in bed the rest of the rainy day, huddled together, in and out of consciousness. Practically forget to eat or do homework; Dean almost didn’t call Sam in from school. After they calm their nerves and cry until there are no tears their all over each other.

The kisses start wild and harsh, needy for any kind of insurance of mutual affection. Most of the neediness bleeds out of Sam in whispers of ‘I finally have you’ and Dean eats it up by pressing his lips harder with the intent to bruise his possession on him. When Sam’s sobs bubble up, Dean strokes his hair and tangled his tongue in with Sam’s.

They take a few naps in between and the intensity simmers down with the increase in daylight. By about two in the afternoon it’s down to light pecks and caresses; the anxiety has left their bodies. They take turns leaving faint trails of kisses along the entirety of the upper torso, jawline, and face. Dean is touchier and strokes Sam’s hair, arms, legs, and just about any inch of exposed flesh.

Sam stays out of school for the rest of the week because Dad’s coming back on Sunday. They lather, rinse, repeat the routine of staying in bed all day cuddling; with small meals in between eaten while surfing channels on the motel’s few stations. A few hickeys are made in easily concealable areas primarily on Sam since he’d have to explain himself, unlike his hotshot brother.

When Dad comes back, they’re running ship like usual; sleeping in separate beds, Sam going to all his classes, and Dean earning money one way or another. John hardly notices a thing in the few weeks he stays before moving them again.

* * *

  
It’s easier to maintain their encounters once school lets out and Dad has a traveling fever. He’s more willing to allow them to stay on their own for entire months now, and he does. He leaves money for food and clothes and takes off to Texas, due back by August. Those two months became Sam’s favorite summer vacation by far.

They spend most of their budget for food at dinners or gas stations, Sam petitioning for healthy food and Dean sometimes indulging him. If they weren’t at the motel, they were swimming or watching movies; it was great until the sweltering heat made being outside impossible.

They’d agreed to wait before really going any further than their heavy makeouts, shooting for Sam’s eighteenth birthday. But being trapped in a motel room together in the heat all the time wore their resistance thin until Sam was begging for it. He’d slowly been breaking down Dean’s walls with traveling hands and being purposely caught watching porn when Dean came back with dinner; food would get cold before it was eaten on those occasions.  
*

It’s a few days after the fourth of July, maybe one of Dean’s favorite holidays, when Sam tips Dean’s internal responsibility meter. He keeps suckling Dean’s neck the way he knows it fires him up. Dean makes several food runs to try to calm himself and prevent giving in, Sam dragging his teeth on his jawline when Dean is going out the door. When he comes back with his blueberry pancakes and bacon and Sam’s fruity little mexican skillet, Sam is on him as he’s setting the food down. He’s wearing Dean’s loose shorts for maximum sensation when he grinds Dean as he shoves him against the wall, mouth tentative.  
Dean allows himself to push back, create his own friction, but he cuts Sam off before they can actually get very far. He leads Sam to the table while he’s still attached to his mouth, and bears down on his shoulders to sit him in a chair. He slides the smaller foam box in front of Sam and puts himself a chair. Sam watches his slim fingers flip the box open and his tongue swipe over his lips; he’s having an issue focusing on his eggs. He’s determined to get off today by a hand other than his own, he can’t take the rising tension each day.

Once he can shovel his breakfast into his mouth, he makes a point of grunting around his food, the same way he does when Dean leaves hickeys on his hips. He looks down but he can see Dean’s eyes flicker over to him, recognition lingering. Sam piles some more of his skillet in, the cheese melty and strung out, and he laps it up hungrily. He listens to Dean readjust himself and smiles, knows his plan is working.

He hears Dean make a throaty sound; it’s his turn to watch. Dean is cramming the greasy bacon in and licking his fingers afterward. It’s obvious it’s for show-- he’s sucking up to the knuckle. Sam flushes red because he can’t believe this is working on him. The rest of Dean’s pancakes are drenched in heavy, thick syrup and smeary butter. He allows the mix of butter and syrup to run on his lips, dribble down his chin, contented. Sam was pretty sure if he got any hard he was going to either pass out or die.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Sam jumps on the opportunity when Dean walks out for burgers for lunch to get off. At this point he didn’t care if Dean walked in on him or what, he was just desperate for some relief. He carries his laptop to their bed and leans against the wall. He’s too horny to really get picky so he picks one of the first videos that shows up. The video opens with two young guys kissing so intently it was impossible not to hear the smacking sound. The taller boy has earrings and lip piercings and initiates the clothes removal by unbuttoning his shirt. The younger boy eagerly strips the pants off his lover and stretches the underwear off. Without warning he sucks his cock into his mouth and Sam breaks.

Sam lowers his shorts and boxers to his knees and starts a slow slide up his leaking erection. Sam closes his eyes and pretends the moans are Dean’s like he’s sucking him off. When Sam is back in reality, the guys have switched position, the pierced one rimming his partner. It looks like an uncomfortable angle, the bottom boy laying on his back, his hips pointed at the ceiling. Sam carefully rubs himself without tipping the edge; he’s holding out for penetration and he gets it after a long six minutes of licking. The boy lowers his hips to the bed and they settle in the missionary position.

Sam goes back into his imagination and transforms himself into the boy being filled, Dean becomes the top. When he closes his eyes he focuses on the sound of skin slapping becoming more intense, more groans being pushed out of both guys. The second time one of them utters ‘fuck’ Sam is on the verge of orgasm. He’s twisting hard on the upstroke as a final effort; it rips through him as the door swings open, too late to go back. He’s shooting into his palm, biting his arm and shouting through skin. He’s almost embarrassed, but he might get what he wants if he keeps this up.

When he comes down from his high, he slams the laptop shut. Dean’s watching him and probably has the entire time. Sam nonchalantly raises his right hand to his face and licks some of his come, savoring the flavor. It’s the first time he’s tried it and he didn’t expect it to be bittersweet; he didn’t know what to expect. He sees it flip a switch in Dean and he shivers and tastes more, eyes meeting Dean’s.

He gets dressed after his seed has been cleaned off his hand. He walks to Dean’s place in the kitchen/dining room to get a reaction. Dean puts a chicken sandwich and soda into Sam’s arms without looking at him. They eat in silence, but Dean is watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. He almost loses it when mayonnaise spills onto Sam’s chin and wrist and Sam scoops it up and enjoys it.

The tension is poisoning the air when they try to watch tv but sweat makes them stick together. Sam gives up and takes a cold bath, soaking for over an hour; he only cools down a few degrees. He takes another hour dressing, putting on deodorant, and blowdrying his hair. He’s just try to space himself before Dean punches him for being such a tease. He successfully makes it until six, about dinner time.

“He let’s go get some dinner,” Dean prompts as Sam comes out of the bathroom.

“You can just go, I’ll stay here,” Sam says, flipping off the lights.

“No, I can’t trust that you aren’t going to pull something again.”

Sam sighs. He wasn’t trying to grate on Dean’s arousal, it just kind of happened. Not that he wants to explain himself. He slips on his khaki sandals and hands Dean the motel key off the counter.

They begin the trip down a few blocks to the main drag where all the fast food places reside. Thankfully the night has cooled some, enough that intertwining hands isn’t a sweaty ordeal. “So what do you want to have?” Dean asks as the buildings come in sight.

Sam chews his tongue thoughtfully, considering today's meals. “Chinese,” he answers enough though it isn’t Dean’s favorite.  
*  
Sam strolls through the door first, belching from the final swig of soda he’d had. Dean chuckles behind him, holding the neat little box of leftovers-- not that chinese was really meant to be warmed up. Sam shuts out the pale blue night while Dean shoves the food, mostly the noodles Dean strung up and dropped over and over, in the mini fridge. The bubbly mood dissipates as a silence hangs in the room, the same room Dean had caught Sam white knuckled, covered in his own seed. He was pretty sure Dean has a similar revelation when he clears his throat.

“Man, how many chinese donuts did you eat?” Sam says, hoping to sound casual.

“Not enough,” Dean grunts when he plops on ‘his’ bed, the air ejects from his lungs.

Sam’s curiosity is piqued; usually they share Sam’s mattress and use Dean’s for a table. But his is still flecked with come. Sam blushes, kicking himself for being so forgetful. He settles in next to Dean, getting as close as he thinks Dean would be ok with right now. He’s probably still on edge for their ‘encounter,’ and Sam isn’t in the mood for a bitch fit.

Dean flips through all the channels at least three times before settling on a mediocre spanish soap opera. It was so weird that his manly brother got involved in shows like this. Sam laughs at his brother’s face, mouth gaping like some ape. The main character’s husband just discovered his evil twin sister that had been running a prostitution house. Ridiculous. Dean jabs Sam in the ribs either to shut him up or maintain his ego, probably both.

A commercial comes on, a man yelling in spanish over bright pictures of cars. “Dude, you call me a girl? You totally enjoy this crap,” Sam jeers.

“Yeah, come here and I’ll show you I’m no girl,” Dean retorts, patting the bedding separating them. He smiles with delight when Sam crawls over, mischief gleaming in his eyes.

“You gonna bring it or what?” Sam playfully pushes Dean’s shoulder and he rolls with it.

Dean only takes a seconds hesitation before he’s turned his body to face Sam, sitting on his lap, a tight grip on his wrists. He smiles boldly, watching Sam wriggle his arms to get free. Sam hides his own smile, he knows exactly what to do, but he’s gonna let Dean think he’s winning and then dominate.

After a few minutes of fake struggling, Dean opens his mouth. “What did you sleep through training? Must be why you couldn’t get the jump on me for so long,” he banters as if the fights over. Sam circles his wrists out of his grip and uses the surprise to his advantage; he gets his knee between Dean’s leg and grabs his arms and flips them, so Dean is pinned to the bed. Sam chuckles at the dumbfounded face Dean makes.

“You just fake me out? You little shit,” he says endearingly.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so cocky.”

Sam attaches to Dean’s collar bone and sucks hard. Dean tries to roll his hips into Sam, but he still has his knee between them.

Dean tries thrashing his legs around to dislodge Sam to no avail. Sam maneuvers his tongue to Dean’s jaw and then behind his ear. Sam feels the patter of Dean’s feet connecting with his thighs and lifts his head to look at Dean. He’s not hurting him, just teasing him or at least Dean’s eyes seem to say so.

“Dean,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

“I love you,” Sam almost whispers into his brothers mouth before stealing a light kiss.

“And I’m the girl? Look at you, eyes wet like you’re gonna cry.” Sam hadn’t realised he’d started tearing up, and uses a wrist to wipe away the evidence. He’s thoroughly convinced his eyes are dry enough when he’s moved. His face is shoved into the bed, Dean’s weight on his back. He sighs and shifts his arms to cushion his head, staring oblong at the bumpy wall.

Dean grinds against Sam’s lower back, slow and heavy. He suckles the flesh between ear and neck, biting lightly. Sam feels the blood rushing down, something he’d desperately been trying to avoid.

“Dean get off me,” he pants.

Dean stops trying to leave a hickey and focuses on Sam’s ear. Sam can feel his hot breath on him.

“I like you like this. It’s nice for me to be able to overpower you even though you’re such a gangly fuck.” He nibbles the cartilage.

Sam sighs, half annoyance, half pleasure. He wishes Dean wouldn’t tease him like this since he was the one that insisted upon waiting for Sam’s eighteenth birthday. It was really torturous to do this just about daily and then be denied. Maybe this instance was payback for his little show when Dean brought lunch.

“Dean can you get off?”

“Nope.”

Sam wriggles his right arm out from under Dean’s leg and extends it forward toward the headboard. He rolls over on his side without restriction, Dean on his thighs and hips now.

“Where’d you learn that one?” Dean asks, casually grinding on Sam’s erection.

“We d-did self defense in gym,” he hisses.

Dean leans over to kiss Sam, a dizzying deep kiss, full of little licks and nips. Sam digs his hands into Dean’s t-shirt. He can taste the the beef with mushrooms Dean had wolfed down and the sweet contrast of the powdered sugar from the chinese donuts. Sam had suggested Dean eat off the kids menu and get chicken on a stick and french fries, but his brothers ego wouldn’t allow it.

Sam rolled them so they lay on their sides, still embraced in a kiss. Sam let his hands unfurl themselves and roam Dean’s chest. He never got tired of feeling the strong muscles of his pecks. Dean’s hands trailed the length of his back, tracing a few scars he got hunting. He focuses his fingers on the scars he left on Sam during the first hunt, bullet graze wounds you hardly tell were there. The ones Dean had so carefully doctored.

“Dean.”

“Sam?” he props himself up on his elbow, arm still wrapped around to trace circles on Sam’s skin.

“Dean please just let me show you how much I want to do this. I just love you so much. Please.”

Dean dips his head down and takes a deep breath. His hand is removed from Sam’s back to scrub his face.

“Sam it’s just-”

“Just what? I’m the one asking. You’re not making me do anything so stop thinking like that. Please.” Sam takes Dean’s hand and kisses it and then squeezes it.

Sam could see Dean’s gears working, his defenses breaking down one by one. Dean couldn’t look at him, like it might shatter him. Several shaky breaths later, Dean finally looks into Sam’s eyes with certainty.

“Ok.”

“Yeah?” Sam hardly believes Dean agreed.

“Yes. But we’re gonna take it slow, ok?” Sam has no more capacity for words, so he nods rapidly.  
*  
Their clothes are tangled on the floor, abandoned roughly an hour ago. Sam’s pretty sure Dean has kissed every inch of his body twice over by now. Dean was hovering over Sam now, uncapping the lube and spreading it over his fingers. Sam felt the lukewarm gel on his outer rim, and Dean’s finger delve in. It didn’t really surprise him since they had taken their sweet time learning each others bodies and stretching Sam out.

Sam gasps when Dean removes the finger to wrap around his cock. He watches through his bangs as Dean generously strokes himself, slicking up. He recaps the tube and tosses it somewhere and leans in to kiss Sam for the billionth time. Dean steadies himself at Sam’s entrance. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Sam takes hold of Dean’s free hand and clasps it tight.

Sam watches Dean as he enters, eyes squeezed tight, brows furrowed. He gasps when his completely full, more stretched than he’s ever been. Dean stays like that until Sam says something. The first movement back nearly kills Sam with the amount of sensations hitting him. He squeezes Dean’s hand harder, and pulls Dean face to his.

“Dean, I love you.”

“I love you too, Sammy. So much.”

Sam’s mouth meets Dean, massaging the bottom lip. Dean pushes his tongue out, asking for access. Sam allows him in and wrestles his tongue. He surrenders quickly, too busy feeling the heavy slide of Dean’s cock in him. Dean’s other hand is sliding the length of Sam’s chest, caressing the left over burn scars. Sam could feel Dean’s hand hesitate on those scars, like he was afraid to hurt Sam, like he was guilty. Sam cards his fingers through Dean’s hair to calm him, to tell him ‘it’s not your fault’ without words.

Dean pulls out gently and breaks the kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If people show interest, I might continue this. I abandoned it 2 years ago, but I still love it.


End file.
